Cruise Control

By
William Fox Conner /
January 23, 1992

i After repairs, the car whispers like a long expiring breath. Not as before, the rear bearings chattering like dice in a cup. The hub is quiet now, not keeping me awake cyphering through those meshing parts for rubs: housing and shaft wearing bearing races paper thin, 'til the wheel grinds a fragile housing; if seals break, and parts fail can we possibly reach our journey's end? So much depends on seals. ii Doubt piques the brain, makes it take things apart, makes it reason. iii Now the road slips below, an automatic flow, as on that last visit to Disney World: "Is it only the scenery moving?" we laughed, shoving back against the rail. "We can't tip or spill. We're safe enough. We won't fall off." Steady as she goes, the car's quiet as a womb or pocket of indifference. Scenery scrolls from a vanishing point; the centerline is seamless, dividing a long ribbon of gray.